


BBCSH 'Liar'  [PG]

by tigersilver



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Acres of Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Moar Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-20
Updated: 2012-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-14 19:03:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fluff. OhGawd, the fluff.  The Fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	BBCSH 'Liar'  [PG]

BBCSH ‘Liar’

Author: tigersilver

Rating: PG 

Warning: Fluff. OhGawd, _the fluff_. The Fluff.

Word Count: 770

 

  
  


His reliable informant was a great big fat liar. 

Too late for Sherlock to tell him so, of course. For the moment he can only be bitter. And keep his hands to himself as best as he can. 

He doesn’t need do that for long, though. That’s the beauty of John Watson: John just knows. He knows Sherlock and he sees, and he’s a better observer of this one singular man than any soul living knows to give credit for…excepting Sherlock. Always excepting Sherlock, who turns toward John’s hands and John’s smile and John’s warm body and hotter mouth like a flower avidly seeking out the sunlight to grow, to bloom. 

It’s a bit scary but it’s nice. It’s good. He wriggles against the smaller man and allows himself to entertain a few small hopes. That it isn’t a fluke, or pity, or empathy or based purely upon his appearance or John’s physiological needs. 

He hopes it will continue, just like this. 

When John pulls back, withdrawing, sighing as he does, Sherlock’s heart takes up residence in his left big toe. No, beneath the floorboards, where his stash used to be, before John came along and cared about things like that. 

No, farther down still—six feet under and so cold. 

“What?” Sherlock needs to know, though. What it was he’s not doing properly, at what point he’s slipped up this time. “John?” He needs to know, even if it’s never to happen again; this, what they are doing, he and John, because then he can imagine freely later and imagination might prove to be his only friend. 

He blinks rapidly; can’t seem to stop. 

“Shhh, Sherlock,” John murmurs, and he’s coming back again, fully into Sherlock’s gripping arms, nuzzling against his grateful skin through all the intervening fabric, and John knows, oh, yes, he must know what’s inside Sherlock’s chest, throbbing. That there is one, beating there, and all for him, and that Sherlock would dearly like to push it all the way across the gap of two sets of ribcages and two sets of covering skins, encouraging John to pick it up and keep it close, his heart. It’s a bit useless, yes, but John might want it. Sherlock has hopes. “Sherlock, I’m right here, calm down.” Little tendrils of blond fly up and tickle Sherlock’s lips when John shakes his head over him; paradoxically, under him, in fact, but still—“Stop breathing like that, you’ll do yourself damage.” 

Damage? 

But the damage has already been done, and it’s not defined as ‘damage’ at all but as ‘repairs’, and ‘re-formats’ and ‘re-do’s’, over and over, and Sherlock’s fairly sure he’s been fixed up, not even realizing it, by deft hands and an adept needle, sewing strong and steady on, and blue eyes and—oh!

“If you,” he says. With effort. “If you might see your way.” It’s no use but he holds John against him a little tighter and presses his lips to John’s temple. Maybe in this curious manner it’ll reach across and through him by osmosis and the words he has inside and spilling out so sloppily will be the better for it. For they’re not very good words, they’re tedious words, and they don’t say the half of it and all he wants is for John not to let him go. “John?” 

And all he fears is that John will. Maybe not now, this moment, but some day. 

But…it is now, this moment, and not ‘some day’. And he’s never a coward and he won’t go down without a fight and this is his best chance, on a silver salver—he’s taking it, cheers.

Taking it, taking it, and the beauty of John is that he knows. He knows exactly what Sherlock’s up to.

“Shhh, Sherlock,” John repeats and he’s smiling up, and the blue is as warm as ever a cool colour can be, and Sherlock feels the bubble of it, rising up, up, and he’s suddenly not able to cease smiling. No—laughing. And John’s laughing as well and prodding his shoulder with a quick jab of a hard finger and asking him:

“Since when?” 

Sherlock winks, ever so slowly, just so, cocking his head. Clicks his tongue, chiding, teasing. He’s a bit of a pirate; his heart’s a sailing ship, fleeting as a hind, but now sunk anchor-deep in a safe harbour. A prize, full of gold. And John knows full well the value of its cargo and is sifting Sherlock’s inky hair through his fingers as he’s snogging him and, well. _John knows_. 

  
  



End file.
